


hit and run (but don't dance)

by ReleaseTheSheep



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Originally Posted on Tumblr, but not the way he usually is, crowley is a flash bastard but he's also a great lover of irony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 18:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20247556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReleaseTheSheep/pseuds/ReleaseTheSheep
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley stumble upon each other for the first time in a long time in Venice, in the middle of Carnevale. However, Aziraphale spends most of the night paying attention to the wrong Crowley...





	hit and run (but don't dance)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @curriebelle on tumblr, CurrieBelle here for the prompt, “masquerade ball”. I did a bit of research for historical accuracy and proper Venetian-ness, but I make no promises. Also, there’s a bit of Italian throughout this that I didn’t bother to footnote, so you may want to have google translate open, or you could guess, you’ll probably be fine, it’s not very involved.

Venice, 1724

Ah, there he is.

A bit on the nose, perhaps, the devilish red Volto-style mask, complete with sculpted horns, but then Crowley has never been all that subtle. It’s been said that Carnevale is where people show their deepest, truest selves, hearts on sleeves and all the rest of it. A shame, Aziraphale thinks, that humans need the security of a mask to hide behind before they’ll let themselves be truly free. A shame, but entirely understandable to Aziraphale. Humanity is often cowardly when it comes to profound emotion, and he can certainly relate.

Which is why it has been nigh on a half hour since he showed his invitation at the door - addressed only to _Il Putto_ in a quirk of charming and enticing secretiveness - and he has yet to take a single step forward since noticing Il Diavolo. Well, in all honesty, “noticing” was probably not the best word for it. He had been fairly struck by the sight of Crowley in his crisp red velvet coat with its black brocade and gleaming gold buttons, vest and breeches in sleek black silk, a jaunty but elegant black tricorne hat adorned with a plump red feather perched on his head, and the look finished with frankly outrageous varnished red shoes with massive gilded buckles. The vision had rooted Aziraphale to the spot. Ever the flash bastard, was his… counterpart. A waiter had soon come by with a tray of drinks, to which Aziraphale had almost unknowingly helped himself, and he had been standing there ever since, sipping from it and watching Crowley prance and twirl from dance partner to dance partner, temptation to temptation. The latest song ends and the dashing demon bows low to his latest conquest, snapping up at the waist just as the musicians lift their bows from their instruments in unison, before removing himself to the edge of the dancefloor and disappearing among the crowd of revellers.

Aziraphale’s corporeal feet suddenly remember how to move and begin to carry him through the crowd, not toward Crowley, heavens no, but to somewhere he can hope to catch another glimpse of that impressive red mask, the bob of a scarlet feather. It seems the feet in question had grown restless during his prolonged motionlessness, and they pull him along rather more zealously than the rest of his body can handle. It is only a matter of a few steps before he tumbles headlong into the arms of a fellow partygoer, spilling his white wine and dignity all over the stranger. “Oh dear, terribly sorry- or ah, _scusa_…” He straightens and brushes himself off, then nearly jumps at the fearsome sight of the Medico della Peste before him. He manages to turn the fright into a respectable chuckle, though, remembering that certain individuals have in recent years taken to making a costume of the plague doctor’s dark robes and odd, beaked mask. He had thought it rather tasteless initially, but confronted with one now, close-up, he has to confess that it is rather impressive; dark folds of heavy cloth envelop the man like a panel of thick, black, night sky, a cowl fully covering the head and neck, the odd flat hat and characteristic white beak painting up a singular silhouette. “_Ottimo costume, signore_,” he says, remembering his Italian. A terse nod from the other, and silence. “Ah, where are my manners, I’ve spilt your drink, too. _Cameriere_!”

~~

Crowley is stunned.

He had come here off-duty, with no intention of inciting, aiding, or abetting any sort of sin, for a few reasons. Firstly, humans were rather good at doing all that themselves without him; doubly so with alcohol present, triply or more from behind the anonymity of masks. Secondly, while temptation can be fun, it has been a long year of wiling and he is uncharacteristically tired. Wiled-out. Wiled-through. Wiled-thin (and if there is more to it than that, if it has been an awfully long time since two adversaries met on a misty battlefield and talked about war and peace and the fomenting thereof, and if he is starting to feel the weight of those years empty of a particular bright smile and endearingly questioning eyes, well he certainly isn’t going to admit it).

The third reason was that it's Carnevale, da- bless it, and if no one else has to work for these few merry weeks, then he certainly isn’t going to. That's just basic sloth, that. Straight out of Sin 101. Besides, Crowley rather enjoys simply watching people, and there are many to watch here in this city, at this time of year. He likes posting up in the corner of a crowded room and letting the full spectacle of human virtue and vice and everything in between unfold before him, as dramatically or discreetly as it pleases. There has always been something fascinating about humans, Crowley thinks. They are clever things. Ruthless and tender, full of contrasts. They never fail to put on an entertaining show, and now they are even dressed as performers.

This is why he had pulled the great black cloak on, donned the pointed mask, miracled up a party invitation for _Il Dottore Peste_ and set up camp here in the shadows at the edge of the ballroom, where he can see widely without needing to be seen - though he is utterly unrecognizable in the doctor’s guise. He likes this costume. It amuses him, somewhat morbidly. Humans had started to wear it to remind themselves that life was short, a message which fit seamlessly into the spirit of Carnevale. Crowley rather enjoys the irony of an eternal being walking around dressed in memento mori. Besides, it is warm. He is cold-blooded, and it is impossible to escape the way the wind comes up off the water and snakes its way into your bones here, in this city of waterways. It is December for Hell’s sake, he wasn’t about to go skipping about without a sturdy outer layer on.

So he had prepared, in a manner of speaking. But not for this. He had not prepared for Aziraphale to be there, let alone for the blasted angel to trip and fall literally into his arms like some tragicomedic heroine. And yet there he was, all wrapped up in soft pinks and blues, and a generous helping of cloud-white in the form of a flowing cravat and dainty tricorne. A white-feathered Colombina half-mask, too, which left his round little apple-red cheeks and soft-lipped pink mouth unhidden. Absolutely bloody cherubic.

Crowley had frozen in place at the sound of the familiar mortified voice, the scrambled apology threaded through two languages and pulled taut by fretting hands. Crowley had just had the time to blink a couple of times and ensure that he wasn’t hallucinating when Aziraphale swept back around to face him again, brandishing two fresh glasses of wine, one of which he places in Crowley’s gloved hand.

“There you are my dear fellow! _Ancora scusa_.”

And with that he’s gone, tottering off between the fine suits and frilly dresses, neck craned toward the dancefloor. Crowley’s mouth opens behind the plague mask, then shuts. _He didn’t know it was me_. He slumps back into the plush upholstery of the seat he’s claimed, sprawls out over it as is his custom. Of course Aziraphale didn’t recognize him like this. What would there be to recognize? His face? Mask. His hair? Cowl. The shape of his body? Cloak. His voice? He hadn’t breathed a word. Crowley grits his teeth and scrunches his face up in a frightful expression of dissatisfaction, which no one sees. This is just as well, because it is entirely inwardly directed. He lets his gaze drift to the dancefloor, where bodies are beginning to gather once again, following the orchestra’s quick break. A sea of masks filling up once more, white Bauta and black Moretta, the likenesses of Zanni, Arlecchino, Pantalone, and the rest of the cast of the Comedia dell'arte, old gossips and military captains and monsters and animals and - _oh_.

There, nearing the very centre of the dancefloor, is a dandy dressed in a vibrant red coat, with a blood-red devil mask to match. He is twirling and peacocking about in front of a row of ladies, an absolutely ridiculous puff of a plume lazily following his movements. _What a prick_, thinks Crowley bitterly. His eyes trace a line to the other side of the room where a cloud-white hat is poking up eagerly, angled directly toward the detestable man in red. _Fuck_. Now that will not do.

~~

Aziraphale has finally managed to push to the front of the crowd and get a clear few of the dancefloor. His eyes scan it for a moment before once more alighting on the vivid red shape of Il Diavolo. He jostles slightly, adjusting his position for prime Crowley-viewing, and prepares to drink his fill of the way the demon moves, the way the light plays on his flamboyant clothes. He finds himself wondering how long Crowley has been based in Venice; he seems to have picked up certain Italian idiosyncrasies since they last spoke, little locally inspired changes to his manner, new flutters of his hands. Aziraphale really has been away too long. He sips his wine and watches the show, keeping his hat low as if that would have any effect on Crowley’s ability to recognize him should he happen to glance Aziraphale’s way. There doesn’t seem to be much of a chance of that happening anyway, frankly. Il Diavolo seems determined to dance the night away, and as such is quite distracted with his apparently endless parade of partners. At that thought, Aziraphale notices a suspiciously orderly row of people on the edge of the dancefloor behind Il Diavolo, and is that- it is! He’s got them queuing up!

_Demonic stamina_, he marvels, surreptitiously shaking his head. What if he were to- no, no, certainly not. But after all… why not? It wouldn’t be all that difficult to make his way around to the other side of the dancefloor, to join the queue. He’d continue to have a good view and in a while, he could take his own turn dancing with the demon. He wasn’t usually one for dancing, but he hadn’t known Crowley to be particularly either, and yet there he goes, nimble feet somehow managing not to tangle with those of the handsome Capitano now on his arm. _Maybe it isn’t so hard_, he thinks. What does he have to lose?

He stifles a laugh. He has a great deal to lose. He has… missed Crowley, in a way, and he cannot allow their reunion to be marred by some clumsy, literal misstep. No, it would be foolish. Definitely foolish. He is happy to watch.

Il Diavolo’s dance takes him across the dancefloor again, and again Aziraphale finds himself twisting his neck uncomfortably to see him clearly. He starts to shift back again the way he came, toward the silent plague doctor chap in his darkened corner.

~~

Crowley is propulsed out of his seat by the sudden pang of jealousy. And then, as soon as it came, the heat is gone.

What exactly would he have done, he asks himself as he settles yet again in his corner, body melting back against a cushion. Stormed over there and shouted at Aziraphale through the mask, something about “_not him, me!_”, or pulled off his getup in the middle of the party to reveal himself, going against every unwritten code of Carnevale and drawing a mountain of unnecessary attention to the two of them, probably getting them both booted into a canal for the imposition? And even without considering the practical aspects of delivering such a message, what was the point of the message itself? Minutes ago he would have been perfectly content (well not quite, but never mind that) for the entire evening to pass without him seeing head nor tail of Aziraphale, and now here he is, scrambling to make himself known to the angel. What sense does that make?

No, he shall stay here, and let Aziraphale go on thinking whatever he thinks. He considers taking a drink from the glass in his hand, then remembers the mask. Just an accessory, then, this wine. Let Aziraphale have this, he thinks, he’s clearly enjoying himself, watching the overstuffed fop put on his show.

It is an easy enough mistake to make, Crowley supposes. He is a bit hurt that Aziraphale could mistake him for such a- pompous, puffed up- arrogant- son of a- ahem. The point is, as much as it may hurt his demonic pride to admit, there could be said to be certain - minor, superficial, and only in a certain light - similarities between himself and the fellow in the red. Crowley knows he can scarcely be counted among the humble, that his style could certainly be described as showy, if not typically colourful, and he can even concede that there is something of his usual temptations in the way the man takes each new partner by the hand, as though he is about to show them a brand new world. But it’s exaggerated and crass, almost a caricature of his own way of doing things, and he can’t help but feel somewhat miffed in the face of Aziraphale’s obsession with the bloke, obvious even from a room away. Or it was- at least, he was-

“You’ve got a good view of Il Diavolo from here, haven’t you old chap? Ah, I mean, _come si dice_\- oh bugger it all, it isn’t as though you were much of a conversationalist earlier. I hope you’ll excuse me, but the drink is rather impeding my ability to make myself understood in your language, and by no means do I wish to sober up at this time.”

Aziraphale drops down into the seat next to Crowley, folding his hands in his lap as he turns his head back toward the blur of red controlling the dancefloor. Crowley forces himself to recover quickly from the minor shock of the angel appearing so suddenly again at his side.

“I know him,” Aziraphale says, pointing, a proud little smile on his face. “I’ve worked with him before. He’s a colleague.”

Crowley tilts his head in what he hopes looks like an interested gesture.

Il Putto takes the encouragement. “Lovely fellow, really. A bit… stubborn, at times, but quite pleasant, deep down.” Aziraphale looks to the dancefloor with wistful watery-blue eyes. “I quite like him.”

Behind the safety of the mask, Crowley gulps. _Is that so, then?_ He opens a gloved palm in a curious gesture. _Go on_.

Aziraphale’s cherub cheeks darken further, and he chuckles. “Yes, I rather enjoy his company. It has been some time since we last spoke, and I was happier to see him than I had expected I would be, if you can believe it.” At that he flexes one of his doughy hands, toys with a ruffle on his sleeve. “Do you know, I was considering going to line up for a dance with him? That must seem to you an odd thing to do, dancing with a work colleague at a masked ball. I’m not even much of a dancer really. Don’t know where the idea came from.” His eyes remain fixed ahead for a moment, and then steal sideways, to Crowley, briefly. For a moment Crowley is afraid the gig is up, that Aziraphale has worked it out and that he’s going to have some uncomfortable explaining to do. But then he sees something in the heaven-blue eyes, a sort of question, a need for… is it assurance? Permission?

He drops his head to one side, letting the beak of his mask point toward the man in red, still dancing up a storm. _Off you go, then._

Aziraphale lights up. “Do you really think so? It’s not… silly? Foolish? You don’t think he’ll laugh?”

_Don’t push it, Angel_, he thinks, but he points his beak more sharply toward the dancefloor.

“No, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. It’s Carnevale, after all, no inhibitions, all that business. Thank you my dear fellow!”

Aziraphale bounces off the seat and disappears back into the crowd in a cloud of pink and blue frills and ribbons. As soon as he is gone, Crowley drops his masked face into one gloved hand.

~~

Aziraphale is fairly buzzing with excitement. Here he is, at the edge of the dancefloor, next in line. And there is Crowley, twirling a young woman in a cat mask with his long, strong fingers, scarlet coat swishing behind him. At last, the furiously spinning pair approach the edge of the dancefloor as the music swells to its climax. He dips her on the final, sustained note, then draws her back up, kisses her hand, straightens his cravat and strides toward his next partner.

Which is Aziraphale. Il Putto steps forward, holds out a hand. “_Posso avere questa danza?_” he asks, and it comes out more sheepish than he intended by half.

“_Beninteso_,” comes the reply and it’s… wrong. This warm, rolling bass is not Crowley’s. The hand reaching forward to take his is not Crowley’s either. The curl of black hair slipping out around one ear and contrasting against the red of the mask is certainly not Crowley’s.

Aziraphale stumbles back. “S-sor- ah, _scusa_,” he manages, pulling away from the dancefloor and the stranger and back into the far more comforting press of bodies surrounding it.

Dazed, he makes his way back to where he was last. The plague doctor is still there, holding the same wineglass he was earlier. He welcomes Aziraphale back with a half-nod. For someone whose language Aziraphale hasn’t been speaking this entire time, the fellow certainly does a good of job of seeming like he understands. Pretending, perhaps.

“It wasn’t him,” says Aziraphale quietly, mostly to himself. The plague doctor puts a comforting hand on his back and- Aziraphale tenses. Behind his eyes flash the brown dirt of Mesopotamia, the sands of Judah, the white tiles of Rome, the misty hills of England. A feeling of calm inspired by the soothing drag of black and red scales over soft skin. That touch… it couldn’t be. His nerves calm, sensation returns to his muscles. He turns to face his adversary, his counterpart, his… friend.

There is no one there.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to yell at me or send me prompts or memes at release-the-sheep.tumblr.com


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